Dangerous Dalliance by Joan Smith Page A

words. “I daresay you’re right,” he said. “But Mrs. Gibbons said none of the silver was gone. The only thing missing is your father’s gun, Miss Hume.”
    Now, why the devil had he told me? Pointing it out might, perhaps, direct suspicion away from himself if it was discovered later. “Really!” I said, feigning fright. “Where did Papa keep it?”
    “In this drawer,” he said, moving behind the desk to slide open the bottom drawer. His head was bent down, just inches below me. I noticed how rich and full his hair grew, and how crow black it was, with tints of color in the light from the window. Then he looked up, and I was struck anew with the splendor of his eyes. They were a brownish black shade, like coffee, with lashes a lady might envy.
    “I wonder how he knew it was there,” I said.
    “Most men keep a gun in their offices, I believe.”
    “I hope he does not plan to return and use it on us.”
    His lips moved in a soft smile. White teeth gleamed behind his full lips. “A good thing I’m here to protect you, miss,” he said, in a gentle voice.
    I felt like a mouse under the protection of a wild cat. He rose from the drawer and resumed a businesslike pose, and my heart resumed its normal beat. He spoke on about having tidied up the office, and nothing being stolen, so far as he could tell.
    I only half listened. What I was telling myself was that from an objective point of view, Snoad was no worse than I. He was a Frenchman—surely he was not English—spying for France. I was an English lady, spying for England. We were equals in that respect. I thought, too, that the French would not choose those of low birth for such important work. Perhaps Snoad was wellborn, though not a nobleman, of course. The revolution had pretty well decimated that breed. Those who had escaped to England would be in no hurry to lend Boney a hand. I decided he was a gentleman. I could not despise the man for bravery and patriotism. But I could and did regret that we were on opposite sides in the battle.
    Then I remembered that he had been at Branksome Hall for two years, and all my romantic fabrication unraveled in a trice. Snoad was no French gentleman spy. He was an English servant with ambitions to make himself a fortune, and did not care if he had to abet the enemy to do it. Or to connive at my father’s death.
    “How did it go in Brighton?” he asked.
    Before I could reply, Aunt Lovatt came to the door. “The tea is ready , Heather,” she said. She bridled up like an angry mare when she saw Snoad. I hoped she would not say something very rude to him. She said nothing. I knew she could not trust herself to speak.
    “We’ll speak about it later, Snoad,” I said, and went out with my aunt.
     

Chapter Eight
     
    With his own excellent bit of blood under him, and the lure of tea to hasten his trip, Bunny was back before the pot was cold. Nothing could be said about our work in front of my aunt, but as soon as she left, I asked him if he had found Depew.
    “Mr. Martin is registered at the White Hart.” Bunny was right about which hotel he would choose. “Wasn’t in at the moment. Left him a note. Told him I’d be staying here for the nonce.”
    “Good. I wonder how he’ll contact us.”
    “We ought to select a place to leave notes. The old blasted pine—we could use that.”
    It would have been my own choice. Lightning had split one of the ancient pines in the park. What remained was a topless trunk with one branch within arm’s reach, to provide concealment. The tree could not be seen from the house, but it was an easy dart to reach it. “I’ll suggest it to him next time we meet.” I told him about my interview with Snoad, and that I planned to go to the loft to continue it.
    “I’ll go with you,” he offered at once.
    “There is something more important you should do, Bunny. Do you have a gun at home?”
    “A whole wall full of them. So has your papa, come to that.”
    “A pistol is what I